


A Suitable Arrangement

by lenin_it_to_win_it



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (kind of), Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Misunderstandings, Other, Weddings, these two are so fucking stupid but they love eachother SO MUCH okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-08-23 18:21:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20247247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenin_it_to_win_it/pseuds/lenin_it_to_win_it
Summary: Crowley has just proposed to the love of his life; Aziraphale thinks he has just been fake-proposed to in order to score a free meal, again. The following day, he has a delightful time out with his ‘fiance’, Crowley, as they use their newly engaged status as a ruse to taste-test wedding cakes. Meanwhile, Crowley is starting to have a few distressing realizations. Fortunately, once they talk it out, Crowley and Aziraphale manage to come to an agreement.





	1. Seventh Time's The Charm

**Author's Note:**

> so I have Most of this written in advance as of posting this first chapter, and I plan to update once a week (though maybe not the same day every week bc my work schedules a NIGHTMARE), so stay tuned for more!

Crowley had proposed to Aziraphale six times in the past year. 

It had all started when he had found something online about a couple faking a proposal at a restaurant in order to get a free meal. 

"We could do that, you and me," he said to Aziraphale in a tone of voice that one would typically use to suggest sensible, decent things, like going for a walk in the park. "I bet it'd work, too."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale shook his head, appalled. "We're not going to lie to innocent people simply to get a free meal!"

"Why not?”

"Because— because its dishonest!" Aziraphale exclaimed, making a frustrated gesture with one arm. "And I am an _angel_. I have virtues to uphold."

"Generosity is a virtue," said Crowley, grinning. "And it'd be generous of them to give us a free meal, so, really, we'd be doing them a favor. That's what your lot's all about, isn't it? Giving humans a chance to be good?"

Aziraphale frowned. "Typically, those chances aren't brought about through lies and deceit." 

Crowley dropped the argument, or so Aziraphale thought, until they were enjoying a lovely dinner at a new sushi restaurant and the demon suddenly dropped to his knees and pulled out a black velvet box with a flourish. 

"Will you. . . marry me?” he asked, the mischievous glint in his eyes at odds with his theatrical attempt at a sentimentality.

Aziraphale shoved his chair back from the table. "Crowley, you conniving old serpent, I told you we weren't doing this!" he exclaimed, crossing his arms. The restaurant patrons gasped, and Aziraphale scanned the room guiltily. "And in front of all these nice people, too. You should be ashamed!" He turned and stormed out of the restaurant, leaving Crowley with his ring box and the bill. 

Aziraphale got into the Bentley and waited until Crowley slunk in moments later. 

"It worked." Crowley's voice was flat, no traces of teasing or triumph. "Poor bastards felt so bad for me, they even didn't make me pay." He tossed the ring box onto the backseat without glancing at it. "You know, you could've said yes and it wouldn't've made any difference. Fun bit of irony, that." 

Aziraphale was still frowning, but his expression had shifted from one of annoyance to concern. Crowley had been wrong to pull a stunt like that, but Aziraphale couldn't stay upset with him when he seemed so. . . dejected. But why? It hadn't been a real proposal, after all. . . Aziraphale reversed the situation in his head for a moment. He supposed he would feel rather miserable if Crowley had rejected him like that, even if it was just a reaction to some foolish prank. 

Aziraphale reached out and hesitantly laid his hand on top of Crowley’s. “Did I hurt your feelings, dear?” 

Crowley yanked his hand away. “_Feelings_?” he sneered. “I don’t— don’t be stupid! I’m a— I’m a _demon_. Demons don’t— we— we don’t— feelings! Ych!” He shuddered. “I don’t _feel_ things.” 

Aziraphale patiently let Crowley’s protests sputter out before taking his hand again. This time, Crowley didn’t move away, and Aziraphale wove his fingers between the demon’s. "My dear, if it's really so important to you. . . if you pretend to propose to me again, I'll pretend to say yes."

Crowley snorted. "And I'll pretend to care." Despite his sarcastic tone, his eyes shone with relief and gratitude, and he squeezed Aziraphale's hand. "Next time, then."

"Not that there should _be _a next time," said Aziraphale sternly, feeling obligated to protest. "Or, indeed, that there should have been a first time." Crowley started the car and began to pull away, and Aziraphale cast a longing glance at the sushi restaurant, sighing. "We can never show our faces there again, and they had such lovely squid."

Crowley's lips curled into a smile. "What a shame."

Aziraphale huffed, crossing his arms. "Oh, I wouldn't expect you to understand. You hardly tasted a thing, unless you consider flicking your tongue into a dish of wasabi in the most ill-mannered way—”

"Tasted like fire," Crowley interjected. 

Aziraphale ignored the interruption. “I know you have your natural impulses, but when you look like a human, the least you can do is act like one. When in Rome, dear. . .” 

Crowley took the lecture in stride, nodding and pretending to agree at all the right points— which, of course, only raised Aziraphale’s suspicions— while already planning his next proposal. 

The next time Crowley got on his knees, Aziraphale kept his word, though it looked as if he had half a mind to protest. Still, he pressed his lips into a thin, disproving line and extended his hand with an unenthusiastic and ungracious, “Fine.” 

"I've given up," Aziraphale announced as they drove home later that evening. "Clearly, you are determined to engage in unsavory antics despite my objections, and there's nothing I can do about it."

Crowley just smirked. "You're still wearing the ring." 

"Oh! Well. . ." Aziraphale flushed, looking down at the ring on his finger. The proposal was fake, but that gold certainly wasn’t, and Aziraphale rather liked the way it looked. It felt right, somehow. “What if someone from the restaurant were to drive past and notice that I wasn’t wearing it?" Crowley raised an eyebrow; Aziraphale glared at him. "Well, do you _want _to get found out? We ought to pretend to be engaged for the rest of the evening, at least.”

Crowley took Aziraphales hand and kissed it. "Anything for my husband-to-be,” he said with a wicked grin. 

“Would you _please_ keep your hands on the steering wheel?” Aziraphale snapped, refusing to let Crowley fluster him with romance. “And stop looking at me before you hit a pedestrian!” 

The following proposals went a little smoother. A few months passed before Crowley decided to propose again, and, by that time, Aziraphale had gotten used to the demon’s little game. In fact, he took to playing some games of his own. 

“Oh, why not?” said Aziraphale fondly, smiling as Crowley held out the ring. As Crowley slid the ring onto his finger, Aziraphale leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “After so many pretend engagements, one would expect at least one pretend honeymoon by now.” Then he sat back in his chair with a perfectly angelic smile as if he hadn’t just reduced Crowley to a red-faced, stuttering mess. In his. . . preoccupied state, he even forgot to try wheedling the staff into waiving the check, though he realized his mistake as soon as he got into the car.

  
“Damn it!” Crowley slammed his hand on the dashboard, then peered down at it nervously as if the Bentley might have gotten hurt. He gave the dashboard a quick rub, then continued his fit of frustration. “Fuck! Can’t believe I forgot!”

Aziraphale just watched him with a smug smile. “How tragic.”   


Crowley froze, then slowly turned to glare at Aziraphale. “It was _you_!” he cried. “You did that on purpose!” 

“Did what on purpose, darling?” asked Aziraphale innocently. “I didn’t do anything.”  
  
“Y—you— you— you _whispered_!” Crowley tried to look fierce, but his cheeks were almost as red as his hair. “You said. . . you know what you said!” 

“Well, I was only playing along!” said Aziraphale, eyes wide and incredulous. His smile had shifted from smugness to something truly wicked, and Crowley couldn’t help but lick his lips hungrily. Aziraphale noticed; his eyes gleamed. He leaned over the glove compartment to whsiper in Crowley’s ear, resting one hand on Crowley’s thigh as he did so. The demon felt weak with desire. He stared down at Aziraphale’s elegant hand, still wearing the “engagement” ring, and could think of nothing else. He was so consumed, he almost didn’t hear it when Aziraphale purred: “If you play a game, Crowley, dear, you simply must play to_ completion_.” 

“Angel—” Crowley’s voice was ragged and desperate. He wanted to fling himself in the backseat and let Aziraphale play him to completion right there, but he knew better than to suggest as much. They had already had that conversation, and it wasn’t pleasant. 

Crowley, in a state of inebriation, had casually remarked that it would probably be a good idea— his exact words were ‘a lot of big, sexy fun’— to have sex in the Bentley, and the look of horror and disgust Aziraphale gave him in return offended him. 

  
“So my car’s not _good_ enough for you, is it?” Crowley yelled, slamming an almost empty bottle down on the table. “Well, _you’re_ not good enough for_ my car_!” 

“I am an _angel_!” Aziraphale yelled back, affronted. He grabbed the wine bottle and threw back its contents, drinking every last drop. “An-gel!” He put the wine bottle down with as much force as Crowley had. “I have _standards_! I need ambi— amben— am-bi-ons!” 

“My Bentley has more _Ambiensssss _than you’ll ever get!” Crowley hissed. 

Aziraphale gasped. “You take that back!” 

Crowley started sliding off his chair. “You take _you _back!” 

“Take my back where?” 

“What?” 

  
“What?”

And neither of them had brought it up again after that. 

“We’re going home,” said Crowley, starting the car. “And when we do, I’ll show you completion, alright.” 

Aziraphale beamed as if he had just been invited to a tea party. “Sounds lovely, dear.” 

Aziraphale continued to try and derail Crowley’s fake proposals after that, though he only succeeded one more time. Crowley was expecting Aziraphale’s tricks and knew to be prepared. Still, Crowley hadn’t had any time to argue when Aziraphale had held up his hand immediately after the sixth proposal and announced, “Champagne for everyone!” He smiled sweetly at Crowley. “On our tab.” 

Aziraphale had only won twice, but, then again, Crowley only had two proper victories himself. They had gotten free meals after the first and second and paid themselves on the third and sixth; the fourth restaurant had offered to cater their wedding at a discount, which they decided to consider a draw, and the fifth restaurant had been destroyed by a sudden grease fire after the owner had been spotted glowering at a newly engaged gay couple and muttering something about “the country gone to ruin”. Only one casualty, miraculously enough. 

The seventh proposal happened at The Ritz. 

Aziraphale found that peculiar enough; surely, Crowley realized that his usual lowbrow scheming would have no effect in such a fine establishment. Moreover, it was a place they frequented often enough to be recognizable, meaning they would have to either miracle the incident from everyone’s memory or keep up the pretense of their engagement whenever they came back. Very strange. Aziraphale supposed Crowley must have wanted a bit of a challenge this time around. 

It was also strange how Crowley had been anxious for hours leading up to the proposal, seeming fidgety and preoccupied, practically jumping anytime he heard Aziraphale’s voice. Every so often, Aziraphale would catch Crowley outright staring at him, his lips a tight, nervous line. Each time, Aziraphale smiled to put him at ease, and, if Crowley didn’t seem calmer after that, the angel would take his hand and simply hold it for a while, until Crowley relaxed enough to say something sarcastic and move his hand away. 

As Crowley parked the Bentley that evening, Aziraphale noticed a glint of sweat on his forehead, pale in the moonlight. He reached out and ran a gentle hand along Crowley’s hairline, bringing his hand to rest against the demon’s cheek. “Are you feeling well, my dear?” he asked, a flutter of fear in his chest. Angels were immune to all human illnesses, and he supposed that meant demons were as well, but he couldn’t help but worry. “We can go to dinner another time if you’d rather—”  
  
“No!” Crowley’s voice was tight, panicked. “I mean. . . no, angel, I’m fine,” he said in a calmer tone. “Just. . . got a lot on my mind at the moment. Demon things,” he added hastily. “Dark, spooky demon things, so don’t ask.” 

Aziraphale was hurt that Crowley felt the need to keep secrets from him, but he tried not to show it. “If you don’t want to tell me, I won’t pry.” 

Crowley, looking pained and regretful, grabbed Aziraphale’s hand. “I’ll tell you soon,” he promised. “You’ll know what’s going on very, very soon.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Very well, dear.” He gave Crowley a quick kiss on the cheek. “Shall we go in, then?”  
  
Crowley nodded, opening his door. “Let’s.” 

Crowley was marginally calmer during dinner, though he still seemed on edge. Then, after dessert, he pushed his chair aside with shaking hands and got down on one knee.   
  
“_Is this what he’s been so worried about?_” Aziraphale thought. It was a little amusing to think of the demon making such a fuss over a pretend proposal, but Aziraphale’s heart was full of compassion as he gazed down at Crowley’s tense, anxious face. “_The poor dear. I won’t play any games with him this time. I’ll only say yes and make sure he feels perfectly loved.” _

"Aziraphale. . ." Crowley sounded breathless, almost nervous. His acting abilities had certainly improved since the last fake proposal. Aziraphale wondered if he had taken lessons. "Will you—” He lowered his head suddenly, as if he couldn't bear to look Aziraphale in the eyes, and the angel smiled. His Crowley always had such a flair for dramatics. “—be my partner, for the rest of our lives?"

Even though he knew the proposal wasn't real, Aziraphale blushed, smiling. Crowley usually stuck to a simple, 'would you marry me', but this wording felt more honest. Their relationship was something that couldn't be put into words, but ‘partners’ certainly came close. It added a note of sincerity to the farcical proceedings that made Aziraphale's heart sing. 

With that in mind, it hardly felt like pretending at all when Aziraphale extended his hand to Crowley so he could put on the ring. "Of course I will, dearest,” he said, the simple words so full of love that they seemed like another language entirely. He intertwined his fingers with Crowley's and lifted the demon's hand to his lips. “Until the end of time.” 

Crowley’s spirits lifted immediately after that, and Aziraphale was so relieved that he didn’t even realize that Crowley made no attempt to get out of paying the bill. 


	2. When The Afterglow Fades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is determined to make sure his first day with Aziraphale post-proposal is a romantic one, and taste-testing wedding cakes is a great way to do it. The only problem: Crowley is starting to realize that Aziraphale might not have taken his proposal seriously, and his emotions spiral out of control.

Crowley spent the rest of the evening in a haze of delirious joy. He had proposed. Aziraphale had accepted the proposal. All of those fake proposals, and none of them had prepared him for the sublime terror of the genuine article, but it had all been worth it in the end.

  
“_Of course I will, dearest._” 

Crowley had expected Aziraphale to get flustered, but his angel had been entirely calm, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. But no one could have mistaken his composure for a lack of emotion; there was love in his eyes, in his smile, in his gentle hands, raising Crowley’s to his soft, soft lips before promising: 

“_Until the end of time._” 

Crowley knew he must have been smiling, but for once, he didn’t care. He was in love— stupidly, painfully in love with the most beautiful, exquisite, kind, intelligent, wonderful angel in all of creation— and he didn’t care who knew it. So what if he was making all kinds of absurd, lovestruck faces for all to see? He was in love, and _Aziraphale loved him back_. His reaction to the proposal was irrefutable evidence. What else could possibly matter? 

Crowley’s heart throbbed like an open wound every time he looked at Aziraphale. Even the smallest things he did filled Crowley with so much emotion, it ached. Just watching Aziraphale button up his pajamas before bed brought tears to Crowley’s eyes, though he launched himself forward and put his head down on the angel’s shoulder so he wouldn’t see. 

“Oh, dear, are you alright?” Aziraphale’s voice was soft but alarmed. He put his gentle hands on Crowley’s shoulders. “Did— did I do something to upset you?” 

Crowley let out a shaky hiss of laughter and hugged Aziraphale tighter. “No, you ssstupid angel.” He bit his lip, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. “You make me. . . ssssso happy.” 

  
“Oh . .” Aziraphale sounded close to tears himself, though Crowley could not see his face. The angel began to stroke his hair. “Dearest Crowley, it mean so much to hear you say that. You make me happy, too, of course. So very happy.” Crowley slowly lifted his head, and Aziraphale smiled at him, eyes luminous with tears, and gave him a gentle kiss. “Now, let’s get you to bed, my dear,” he said, caressing one of Crowley’s tearstained cheeks. Crowley leaned desperately into his touch, and Aziraphale gave him another kiss. “I think it’s been a rather exhausting day for you.” 

Crowley was exhausted, but he wasn’t too tired to cling to Aziraphale, refusing to let go for even a moment. Fortunately, Aziraphale seemed content to let Crowley hold him as long as he wanted to, and Crowley fell asleep with the angel still in his arms. 

The next morning, when some of the initial shock had faded and Crowley had calmed down enough to look back at the previous night’s lovesick antics with a faint tinge embarrassment, it struck him that Aziraphale was acting. . . strange. More precisely, he was acting perfectly normal, as if he hadn’t just accepted a proposal 6,000 years in the making. 

  
“Is there anything in particular you’d like for breakfast, dear?” Aziraphale asked as he put on his coat, pausing to admire his reflection in the mirror for a moment before turning around to face Crowley, who had been staring at him in silence, trying to detect anything in Aziraphale’s speech or mannerisms that was out of the ordinary. “I was thinking we could go to a café. I’m in the mood for something sweet.” 

Crowley heard himself utter some vague noise of agreement. It occured to him that maybe Aziraphale was only pretending to act casual because Crowley had worried him with his emotional volatility the night before. Perhaps he thought going about business as usual would calm him down. The idea brought Crowley tremendous relief. Surely, that was it. The only other explanation to come to mind was— 

“Café! Great idea!” Crowley attempted a smile; judging by Aziraphale’s concerned expression, it was not a success. “Let’s go. Now.” 

Even though he had found the solution, Crowley still couldn’t keep himself from watching Aziraphale and scrutinizing his every move. The angel caught him staring more than once during breakfast, always reacting with a nervous smile and some innocuous little question. 

  
“Did you get enough to eat, dear?” Aziraphale asked, glancing down at the mug of coffee clenched in Crowley’s white-knuckled hands, then toward the cinnamon roll he had taken one bite of and promptly ignored. “I know you don’t usually like to eat very much, but I always find a good meal to be relaxing, and, well. . .” Aziraphale’s gaze lingered on Crowley’s hands. “. . . you do seem rather tense.” 

“I’m fine.” Crowley stabbed his cinnamon roll and took a bite. It was disgustingly sweet— Crowley had only ordered it for Aziraphale to steal, anyway— but he got it down. “You see that, angel?” he said triumphantly. “If I was anymore relaxed, my bones would fall out right now, and I’d be a big gooey mess on the floor.”

Aziraphale frowned. “That doesn’t sound very relaxing at all.”

Crowley wasn’t exactly sure what was supposed to happen when one relaxed. It was a state of being he rarely experienced. “I’d grow extra bones, then,” he hazarded. “Millions and billions of ‘em, far as the eye can see.” Strangely enough, this did not seem to alleviate the angel’s concern. 

“Perhaps we should—”  
  
_Perhaps we should go home. _

Crowley shook his head before the angel even finished speaking. Going home would be admitting defeat, and he was not going to be defeated by his own stupid, baseless fears. Just last night, he had _proposed_! He couldn’t follow that up by wasting the day moping around in bed. Aziraphale deserved better. He deserved excitement, romance—

Crowley heard a sudden crash; one of the girls working behind the counter had dropped a platter of cupcakes meant to be put on display. She dropped to her knees and began to frantically pick them up. 

Crowley leapt to his feet. “Cake! Great idea!” He flashed a wide, somewhat manic smile at Aziraphale. “Let’s go!”

Aziraphale’s attention was on the flurry of activity behind the counter. The manager, a large, red-faced man, arrived and seemed ready to start yelling, but he miraculously thought better of it and helped the girl clean up the fallen cupcakes instead. Aziraphale smiled and turned to face Crowley. “Now, what was that, my dear?” 

  
“Cake!” Crowley’s fingers drummed on the tabletop impatiently. He jerked his head toward the door. “You said you wanted to test the cakes, and now we can!”   
  
Aziraphale frowned. “What are you—”

  
“Wedding cake, angel!” Crowley exclaimed. When Aziraphale still seemed confused, Crowley made an expression that was dangerously close to a pout. “You don’t remember?” 

  
A couple months ago, a construction detour had forced Crowley to take an unfamiliar route home.  
  
“This is what we get for going to the_ opera_,” he had groused. “Couldn’t have gone to a concert, or gone out dancing. No, just a lot of sitting around listening to humans in costumes yelling in Italian.” 

  
Aziraphale half-listened, half-skimmed his program. “Oh, be quiet. You love _Faust_.” 

Crowley shook his head. Aziraphale was right, but he refused to admit it.“Hate_ Faust_. Can’t stand it. Worst opera ever.” 

“You’ve seen it eleven times.”  
  
“Because you’ve_ made _me see it eleven times.” 

“You’re perfectly capable of saying no, if you— oh, look!” They drove past an upscale bakery, and Aziraphale nearly pressed his face up against the car window to get closer to the elaborate cakes on display. “Aren’t they lovely?” Aziraphale sighed. “I’ve always wanted to try wedding cake.” 

Crowley was seconds away from pulling the Bentley into an illegal u-turn. “I’ll get you one right now.” 

“No, you won’t, you old serpent.” Aziraphale shook his head, amused. “It’s past eleven. I’m sure that bakery has been closed for hours.” 

Crowley scoffed. “Think that’ll stop me?” 

“Besides, you can’t have a wedding cake without a wedding,” said Aziraphale, settling back down into his seat. He thought for a moment. “Well, I suppose one might have some if they were engaged. It seems as if they’d have some kind of. . . tasting session available.” Aziraphale glanced back for a moment. “It must be new. We aren’t terribly far from your flat, and I’ve certainly never seen it before.” 

Crowley made some kind of vague noise in his throat and kept driving, though the conversation stayed engrained in his memory. Aziraphale liked to memorize books and poems; Crowley liked to memorize Aziraphale, the little things he said and did, small habits, banal conversations. Sometimes, it hurt Crowley that Aziraphale didn’t seem as concerned with remembering these moments as he was. 

“You said you wanted to try wedding cake, remember?” Crowley insisted. “After _Faust_?” He put on his most charming smile. “How about now?” 

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “But, we’re not— oh!” A sudden mischievous sparkle kindled in his eyes, and he smiled. “I suppose you did propose to me last night.”

Crowley wasn’t sure what to make of Aziraphale’s tone, which was playful, almost teasing. It was the voice he used when Crowley tempted him into doing something he shouldn’t. Crowley’s heart sank; was that how he thought of the proposal, as some silly temptation? 

“_Maybe he’s just hung up on the cakes_,” Crowley thought. “_Since we’re not properly engaged_.” 

Crowley didn’t see his proposal the way humans did, as a prelude to marriage, nor did he consider himself and Aziraphale engaged. He had only meant the proposal as a declaration of love, one that needed no further elaboration or ceremony now that Aziraphale had said yes. Marriage was too simple and limited a concept for what Crowley and Aziraphale shared, and weddings were just expensive, religious parties humans threw as an excuse to waste money and show off to one another. Crowley figured he and Aziraphale could forgo all that nonsense. He had proposed; Aziraphale had accepted. If his angel got to enjoy some cake in the process, all the better. 

“That bakery you saw isn’t too far from here,” said Crowley, eager to distract himself from his own thoughts. “We could head over now.” Crowley caught Aziraphale eyeing his cinnamon roll and pushed the plate across the table. “Or once we’ve finished here.” 

Aziraphale picked up his fork, beaming. “What a delightful idea.” 

***

It was a slightly cool spring day, but, with the way Aziraphale was carrying on, it might as well have been the heart of winter.   
  
“Oh, isn’t it _freezing_?” Aziraphale cried, all but batting his eyelashes as he sidled up to Crowley. He gave a theatrical shiver. “You simply must stay close to keep me warm.”  
  
“Keep you warm?” Crowley snorted but made no attempt to push the angel away. “I’m the cold-blooded one here. If anything, you should be keeping _me _warm.”   
  
Aziraphale was unbothered by this argument. “We’ll keep eachother warm, then.” 

“Maybe you’d be warm if you actually wore this thing as a _jacket _instead of an accessory,” Crowley grumbled, starting to do up the buttons on Aziraphale’s coat. “Not even buttoned, no wonder you’re cold.” 

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale’s smile was flustered but pleased as he watched Crowley fasten his buttons. Nothing made him quite as happy as being indulged by his beloved Crowley, and there was something particularly intimate about letting him button his coat. Even though they were out on a crowded street, Aziraphale felt as if he and Crowley were the only beings in the world. “Thank you.” 

  
“All better now?” asked Crowley mockingly. “Or are you still freezing to death?” 

“Maybe if I had a scarf—” Aziraphale began. 

Crowley groaned and miracled a scarf around Aziraphale’s neck. “Like that?” 

Aziraphale uncoiled the scarf slightly so he could better admire it. It was thick and warm, the material a plush cashmere, black with a red underside. The angel’s face lit up in a smile so wide it made his cheeks ache. Crowley was so talented with his miracles, so wonderfully creative and clever, and it was _just_ like him to make such a beautiful gift in response to a spontaneous, silly little request. 

Of course, Aziraphale knew better than to try saying any of this out loud. Instead, he just wrapped his arms around Crowley and held him close. Aziraphale was usually more reserved with public affection, but he was willing to make an exception given the circumstances. “It’s perfect. Thank you, dear.” 

Crowley sank into Aziraphale’s touch. “I’m only doing this for the body heat,” he said. “Because it’s so cold out here. Don’t get any ideas.” 

  
“Don’t worry, I wont.” Aziraphale laughed and let Crowley go, though the demon immediately reached out and grabbed his hand. “We shouldn’t be too far, now,” he said, scanning the streets. “A few blocks, perhaps.” 

As they walked, Aziraphale kept glancing down at his and Crowley’s intertwined fingers. Aziraphale had forgotten to take off his “engagement” ring the night before, and it appeared Crowley had as well. 

“_How fortunate_,” Aziraphale thought. “_He won’t have to miracle it on for the cake testing_.” 

The cake testing— now, that was a delectably sinister little plot, one Aziraphale only felt a tiny bit guilty about allowing Crowley to tempt him into. They had never pretended to be engaged for longer than an evening before, but Aziraphale found he rather enjoyed it. He smiled at every human he passed, hoping they would notice his and Crowley’s joined hands and matching rings. 

“_And what handsome rings they are_,” Aziraphale thought. 

For every previous proposal, Crowley had given Aziraphale the same plain golden band, but, for some reason, he had gone with something more elaborate this time. The band was a pale, almost white gold, and it was inlaid with a modestly sized but intensely radiant diamond that shone every color in the sunlight. Upon closer inspection, it appeared Crowley’s own ring had been upgraded as well; it was made of a darker gold than Aziraphale's, and instead of a diamond, it had some kind of black stone in the center. Jet, perhaps, or onyx. 

Aziraphale lifted Crowley's hand so he could see his ring better. “These rings are ever so much nicer than the ones you usually propose with.”

Crowley’s brow furrowed. “I’d bloody hope so.” 

Crowley started moving forward again, and Aziraphale followed along, still holding his hand. He opened his mouth to ask what Crowley meant, but they passed by an antique store, and one of the objects in the display window caught his eye. "Oh, Crowley!" he exclaimed, delighted, tugging on the demon's arm to bring him to a halt. "Crowley, look! How darling!" 

Crowley made eye contact with an unsettlingly large and lifelike porcelain doll with 18th century clothes and a rictus smile. "That thing's definitely cursed."

Aziraphale looked confused."What are you—” His eyes landed on the doll. "Oh." The angel gave a little shudder. "Spooky. Never mind her, Crowley, dear. I meant, look at this!" Aziraphale gestured at a rather dingy-looking china teacup decorated with watercolor paintings of snakes. "Isn't it lovely?"

"Oh, no." Crowley shook his head. "No, no, no. No way in Hell. I refuse."

Aziraphale pouted. "But I haven't even asked for anything!" 

"I know that face you make when you want something," said Crowley, his back to Aziraphale as he walked away. "And it's not going to work. You need another teacup like I need a blessed hole in the head."

"Oh, but Crowley!" Aziraphale grabbed Crowley's hand and tried to drag him back toward the window, but the demon held firm. "Crowley, just look at it!" Aziraphale pleaded. "How can you say no to those dear little snakes?" 

"Just like this," said Crowley. "No." He turned to face Aziraphale. "No more teacups," he said, placing his hands on the angel's cheeks. He had intended to hold Aziraphale's face to emphasize his steely, uncompromising gaze, but instead, all he could think of was how soft and warm and perfectly kissable Aziraphale's skin was. Still, Crowley tried to remain firm. "You've got a thousand of the damn things at home, and you drink out of the same mug every time anyway—”

"But this one's special!" Aziraphale insisted. "It would be yours—your special snake cup!"

Crowleys tone was somewhere between incredulous and sarcastic. "My special snake cup." 

"Yes, exactly!" 

Aziraphale smiled, and Crowley felt his insides turn to jelly. He could never get used to being loved. Every time, it seemed strange and unthinkable that anyone— let alone someone as kind, and caring, and good as Aziraphale— would love him enough to hold his hand, or kiss him, or accept his proposal, or buy him hideous antique cups he didn't want. Aziraphale's face shone with love and earnestness; all he wanted was to make Crowley happy. It was impossible to tell him no. 

Crowley groaned. "Alright, angel. You win. Go get the stupid snake cup."

A few minutes later, Aziraphale returned with the teacup and several large books that Crowley somehow found himself stuck carrying. The weight didn’t bother him, but he missed holding Aziraphale’s hand. Fortunately, the bakery wasn’t far. 

"As a matter of fact, we do offer tasting sessions for engaged couples!” Emma, the young lady behind the counter, enthused. "It's such a funny story, too. Marie— that's Ms. Thomas, the owner— says she just woke up in the middle of the night a couple months ago and came up with the idea out of nowhere,” she said with a wide, perky smile, her ponytail swinging. “Can you believe it?” 

Aziraphale’s smile was even wider and perkier. “Why, yes, I can!” Crowley, who had a low tolerance for perkiness, rolled his eyes until he suddenly found himself the target of the angel's smile. "Although it almost sounds miraculous."

Crowley refused to smile back. “No, it doesn’t. Some old bat had a dream. Nothing miraculous about it.” 

Aziraphale shot Crowley a stern look, but Emma seemed unaffected by his rudeness.

"Usually, couples have to sign up for a tasting in advance, but our schedule for the day is completely clear," she continued cheerfully. "So we can fit you in right now! How lucky is that?"

Aziraphale gave Crowley a smug look, then turned back to the lady with a charming smile. "Almost as lucky as I am to be engaged to my darling Crowley," he said sweetly, taking Crowley's hand. "Wouldn't you agree, dear?"

"Mmf." 

They were led over to a table for two while Emma began to explain the process. "This is just for flavor selection, of course," she said, giving them a small menu. "You'll have to schedule a second consultation to formalize the design— if you're interested in one of our customs, that is. If not—“

"We'll burn that bridge when we get there," Crowley interjected.

"Thank you, darling!" Aziraphale chirped, his fingers digging into Crowley's leg under the table to shut him up. "We appreciate your help. Goodbye, now.” When Emma walked away, Aziraphale glared at Crowley. “Honestly, Crowley, there was no need to be rude!"

Crowley put his feet up on the table. ”I'm a demon. Rude is what I do.”

Aziraphale hastily shoved Crowley’s feet back down. “Would you_ please_ behave yourself?” he hissed. 

Crowley leaned across the table, his best attempt at an earnest expression on his face. “If I'm not rude at least eight times a day, I’ll die. Burst right into flames and—” Crowley made an exploding motion with his hands. “—boom, dead. And I mean, proper dead, not some little discorporation, either.” 

Aziraphale scoffed. ”Oh, that's not true." He paused, concerned. "Is it?"

“‘Course not." Crowley grinned. Aziraphale was too gullible. He winked. "It's only six times, not eight.”

Aziraphale decided not to dignify that with a response, instead settling down behind his menu with a huff. His mood lifted the instant he started reading off different flavors. “Oh, white chocolate and strawberry! Doesn’t that sound lovely? Vanilla and Earl Grey. . . oh, and_ this_ one has _pears_—”

Crowley allowed himself a small smile behind the privacy of his menu.

When the menus were taken away and the cake samples arrived, Crowley had to find a more creative means of hiding his face from Aziraphale. He couldn’t not smile; Aziraphale looked so _happy_, wiggling a bit in excitement before tasting each new cake, closing his eyes as he bit in, letting out little sighs of contentment or gasps of joy, always glancing over at Crowley to see if he was enjoying himself, too. No, not smiling was impossible, but Crowley had to at least pretend he still had some shreds of dignity. 

“Have you tried this one yet?” Aziraphale asked, beaming as he held out a forkful of cake for Crowley to taste. “I know you’re not terribly fond of sweets, so you might enjoy the filling— blood orange.” 

“Gotta tie my shoe again,” Crowley mumbled, shoving his head under the table for the fifth time in as many minutes. 

Aziraphale ate the cake himself, chewing slowly, a thoughtful look on his face.“Well, I think it would have been a four from you, which makes it. . . my third favorite.” 

“Third favorite?” Crowley slid back out from underneath the table. “And what do you mean, a four from me?” 

Aziraphale blinked. “Haven’t I shown you my equation? Here, I’ll write it down—” Aziraphale grabbed a napkin from the middle of the table, pulling a pen out of his pocket and scribbling out a string of symbols before Crowley could protest. 

Demons, generally speaking, loved math. Satan had invented it thousands of years ago, and it had been used to torment the human race ever since. Many souls had been corrupted by the horrors of mathematics. Crowley was on board at first, but he thought adding letters into the mix was overkill. If the ever-growing equation Aziraphale was writing down served as any indication, the angel did not share his sentiments. 

“It’s very simple, Crowley. You see—”Aziraphale began pointing out certain variables, launching into an explanation that did not sound very simple at all. Crowley could pick out bits and pieces— flavor, complexity, presentation, mouthfeel— but he was more than content to merely let Aziraphale’s words flow over him, enjoying the sound of his angel’s voice. “—and, finally—” Aziraphale indicated the ‘C’placed outside the parentheses enclosing the rest of the equation. “Everything is multiplied by ‘C’ for Crowley, which, of course, is calculated as 1.5c, where the lowercase ‘c’ is your enjoyment on a scale of one to five.”

Crowley was dangerously close to having to tie his shoe again. “I’m part of the equation?” He tried to think a snarky comeback, but it was impossible to think of anything sarcastic while Aziraphale was smiling at him with such sincerity. “Hhnrg.” 

“Of course you’re part of the equation, dear,” Aziraphale laughed, patting Crowley’s hand. “And quite a significant variable.” His eyes sparkled with playful warmth. “As you can see, it’s mathematically impossible for any flavor to be my favorite unless you enjoy it, too, at least a little bit.” 

Crowley just shook his head. "I bet you anything I could pick your favorite without needing to use some. . . fancy math sentence.” 

“An equation, dear boy.” 

“_‘An equation, dear boy’_,” Crowley mimicked. “And it was that dark chocolate amaretto one, obviously.” 

Aziraphale gasped. “You’re right! However did you know?”

Crowley leaned back in his chair with a smirk. "That one made you moan the loudest."

"I most certainly did not _moan_!" Aziraphale protested, flushing. "For Heaven's sake, Crowley, you make it sound so. . . indecent." 

“Oh, it sounded plenty indecent," said Crowley, greatly enjoying the turn the conversation had taken. "The only other time I've heard you make a noise like that was when we—“

"_Crowley_!" 

"Aw, c'mon, angel." Crowley grinned and took Aziraphale's hand. "What's wrong with a little indecency now and then?"

"It's indecent, that's what's wrong with it," Aziraphale retorted, clearly trying not to smile. He laced his fingers with Crowley's. "I wouldn't expect a serpent like you to understand." 

Crowley hissed, making Aziraphale roll his eyes. He grabbed his fork and took a bite of the cake with blood orange filling that Aziraphale thought he would like. It was actually pretty good, but, rather than tell Aziraphale that, Crowley decided to keep teasing him. "Admit it," he said. "You like being indecent, don’t you, you bastard?” 

Aziraphale laughed. "I suppose this is a rather indecent situation," he said, scanning the bakery to make sure no one was nearby before turning back to face Crowley with a mischievous smile. "Faking an engagement to taste-test wedding cakes." Crowley felt his heart stop. It felt as if the world should have frozen along with it, should have come to a crashing halt, but Aziraphale kept talking as if nothing happened. "It's really quite roguish of us." 

Crowley tried to swallow, but stubborn bits of cake clung to the insides his throat. He felt like he was choking. He_ wished_ he was choking, so he could discorporate, and die, and escape the awful realization that Aziraphale didn’t know that his proposal had been serious. 

Once Crowley managed to push his thoughts beyond the panicked repetition of, "_he didn't know, he didn't know, he didn't know_", he immediately started berating himself.

"_Of course he didn't know. He never would have said yes if he knew. It's all fine as part of some stupid game, but for real. . . He doesn't love you. Of course he doesn't love you. Why would he? You don't deserve it. You'll never deserve it. You're stupid, useless, unforgivable. . ."_

"Crowley?" Aziraphale pulled Crowley away of his spiralling thoughts for a moment. "Is something wrong?" 

“’S fine,” he muttered, looking anywhere but at Aziraphale. “Tickety-fucking-boo.” 

“Oh, dear.” Even without seeing the angel’s expression, Crowley could hear the apprehension in his voice. 

“_That’s probably what he would’ve said if he’d known,_” Crowley thought bitterly. “_In exactly that tone, too._”   
  
“_Oh, dear. What a silly mistake you have made, Crowley. Why would you possibly think I would ever say yes to such a foolish proposal? You couldn’t possibly imagine that I_—”

Aziraphale’s actual voice cut through the cruel imitation in Crowley’s mind. “Does this have anything to do with. . . whatever it is you wouldn’t tell me about last night?”

Last night, when Crowley had been agonizing over the proposal all day, terrified but determined to try. Crowley looked back at his past self with contempt. How could he have ever been so stupid, so_ pathetic_? He realized Aziraphale was still waiting for an answer. “Something like that.” 

  
“And you’re still quite sure you wouldn’t like to talk about it?” 

Crowley risked a glance at Aziraphale. His kind, earnest face was creased in concern, but his eyes were hopeful as they met Crowely’s. Crowley shook his head quickly. “No. Can’t.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked down at his hands, silent for a moment, then he lifted his head again. “Would you like to go home, dear?” he asked, his voice so soft it made Crowely shudder. “You don’t have to tell me what it is you’re thinking of, if you don’t want to, but. . .” Aziraphale offered Crowley a small, hesitant smile. “Perhaps you could let me comfort you?” 

“Comfort me?” Crowley meant to sound sarcastic, but the words came out sounding desperate and needy. 

Aziraphale placed his hands over Crowley’s. “I could read to you, if you’d like, if you think that would be a good distraction? Or I could draw you a relaxing bath, or, well. . .” Aziraphale laughed, a bit embarrassed. “I suppose I could simply leave you alone, if you’d prefer.” He patted Crowley’s hand. “Whatever you’d like, dear.” 

It was a tempting offer, but Crowley refused to let himself accept it. He wasn’t weak. He didn’t need comforting. He didn’t need anything. He just needed to know if Aziraphale—   
  
“_Damn it, that’s still needing!_” 

“Crowley?”

Fear. That was definitely fear. Crowley dragged a hand through his hair, staring down at the cake crumbs on his plate. “_Great, now I’ve gone and upset him. Can’t do anything right. Useless, worthless. . ._” 

Aziraphale rose from his chair. “I think that we had best get on our way.” When Crowley remained hunched in his seat, tense and trembling, Aziraphale pried his fingers off the fork and took his hands. “Up you get, dear.” Crowley complied. “Come along, now.” 

Crowley felt himself stumble away from the table, pulled forward by the gentle but insistent pressure of Aziraphale’s grip. Aziraphale kept up a soft stream of chatter as he led Crowley through the crowded streets. Crowley couldn’t make out individual words, but the sound alone was enough. 

Crowley let Aziraphale look after him for the next few hours. He had his rationalizations, of course: _Aziraphale_ would feel better after he had gotten this out of his system, so Crowley would let him. Not for any kind, altruistic reasons— just because it was less annoying than the alternative, which would be to have Aziraphale fussing over him like a mother hen all day. 

“_It’s a selfish, evil decision,_” Crowley though as he let Aziraphale tuck him into bed. “_Nothing to do with being nice to Aziraphale, or wanting to be cared for. Definitely the wrong thing to do._” 

It was hard for Crowley to feel particularly malevolent while an angel stroked his hair and recited _Winnie the Pooh_ at him, but he did his best. 

“Do you need another pillow, dear?”

Many of the blankets and feather pillows Aziraphale typically hoarded on his side of the bed were already heaped around Crowley, who was suffocating in a cocoon of softness, but he didn’t protest. 

Aziraphale fluffed up the pillow and added it to the nest. “There we are.” He folded his hands together and smiled down at Crowley. “Is that better?”

Crowley turned over so that his face was pressed into the mattress, hidden from Aziraphale. He couldn’t meet those kind, loving eyes without feeling weak and overwhelmed. “Mhm.” As soon as Aziraphale was out of sight, Crowley was gripped by the fear that he would leave. “Stay?” 

“Of course I will.” Aziraphale kissed the back of Crowley’s head and attempted to smooth out the tangle of blankets piled onto him. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.” 

Crowley fell asleep, drifting into the quagmire of dreams. The only image he retained upon waking was one he had dreamt a thousand times before: Aziraphale, standing on the gates of Eden, sheltering him beneath his wing.   
  
As promised, Aziraphale was there when Crowley woke up. “Oh, good morning, my dear!” he exclaimed, beaming and clasping his hands together. “Are you feeling any better? Did you sleep well?” 

The mortification of the previous day came flooding back, but Crowley was still half-asleep, so it was more of a dull throb than a keen ache. “Morning?” he managed to croak. “How long was I—”

Aziraphale was quick to comfort him. “Oh, it’s only been three days.” 

“Three _days_?” Crowley shook his head, trying to shake himself awake. “And you didn’t try to wake me up?”  
  
“Well, you seemed out of sorts, and I thought you could use some rest,” said Aziraphale. “Besides,” he added, smiling. “You always make such dear faces while you’re sleeping.” 

Crowley pushed himself into a sitting position, brow furrowed. “Did you just. . . sit there and watch? For three days?”  
  
“Well, of course!” Aziraphale laughed, surprised, and laid his hand on top of Crowley’s. “You asked me to stay.” 

Crowley felt something in his chest that wasn’t the horrifying, oppressive weight of his mistakes crashing down, something more. . . fluttery. “Guess I did.” 

“Would you like some cocoa?” Aziraphale asked, his fingers moving contemplatively across the back of Crowley’s hand. “You seem a bit chilled.” 

  
“Maybe that’s because I’m not broiling under all those blankets,” Crowley retorted. Quite a few had been tossed off while he slept, but more than half of them were still tangled around his legs and torso. “I’m bound to feel like a block of ice by comparison.” 

“You didn’t like the blankets?” Aziraphale pouted, and Crowley sighed. 

“Go. Make us some cocoa.”  
  
Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand. “I most certainly will, dear.” He kissed Crowley’s forehead. “Why don’t you go sit down in the living room, and I’ll meet you there?”  
  
“Sure. Fine.” 

As soon as Aziraphale left the room, Crowley could feel himself start to panic again. 

  
“_No_,” he thought. “_Not again. I won’t do that to Aziraphale.” _

He shoved the remaining blankets onto the floor, slid out of bed, and made his way to the living room. Moments later, Azirapahle sat down beside him on the couch and handed him the infamous snake teacup. 

  
“Here you are,” said Aziraphale, smiling as his fingers brushed against Crowley’s. "Some delicious cocoa to celebrate your very first time drinking out of your special snake cup." He watched Crowley intently for his reaction, his whole face lighting up when Crowley smiled. "Oh, is it good, dear? I added a dash of cinnamon in yours," he said conspiratorially. "I know you like it with a little kick." 

As he stared down at Aziraphale's smiling face, Crowley felt some of the tension in his chest lighten. Even if he didnt say it in so many words, even if he hadn't known about the proposal, Aziraphale loved him. He loved Crowley enough to comfort him without even knowing why he was upset, enough to stay by his side while he slept for three days, enough to bring him cocoa with cinnamon in his special cup. . . enough to forgive him for needing more than he deserved to get. 

Crowley took a deep breath. ”Angel. . ." He put his cup on the table so he could devote his full attention to Aziraphale. "If I proposed to you. . . would you say yes?" 

"Well, of course I would," said Aziraphale, frowning. He took a sip of cocoa. "I gave you my word." 

"That was for fake proposals."

Aziraphale set his cup down slowly. "Yes. . ."

All Crowley wanted to do was turn into a snake and slither away from the conversation, but he forced himself to stay still. "What about a real proposal?"

"Oh!" Aziraphale blushed, a startled but genuine smile spreading across his face. "A real proposal! Well, I— I suppose you'll have to ask me to find out," he said, trying to play coy in spite of his obvious eagerness. 

The last vestiges of fear lifted, and Crowley reached out and took Aziraphale's left hand, holding it up so his ring caught the light. "I already have." 

Aziraphale's brow furrowed. "You already. . ." Realization dawned on his face. "Last night! You mean, that wasn’t—" 

"Nope."

"That was—”

"Bingo." 

“Oh, how humiliating!" Aziraphale moaned, hiding his face with his hands. Crowley stretched a comforting arm over the angel's shoulders. "I'm such a goose!" 

Crowley gently bumped his head against Aziraphale's. "You are." 

"And _you're_ a goose as well," Aziraphale snapped, lifting his head. “Proposing like that, and not even _telling_ me—”

"I told you when I proposed, didn't I?" Crowley protested. "It's not my fault you didn't get it."

Aziraphale threw his hands in the air. "You fake-propose all the time! How I was I supposed to know you actually _meant _it this time?"

"I meant it." 

Aziraphale sighed. "I'm sorry, dear," he said. "I know it it's difficult for you to be vulnerable and open with your emotions—”

Crowley hissed loudly and covered his ears.

“—and it couldn't have been easy for you to propose," Aziraphale continued, raising his voice slightly. "But I'm very glad that you did." He put his hands on top of Crowley's, and the demon reluctantly let Aziraphale slide them away from his ears. "I accept your proposal, my dear." He smiled as Crowley threw his arms around him and buried his face in his shoulder. "Of course I accept. I can't wait to marry you."

Crowley mumbled something inaudible. 

"What's that, dear?"

Crowley lifted his head. “I said, we’re not getting married.”

"What do you _mean_, we’re not getting married?” Aziraphale cried. “You _proposed_!” 

Crowley scowled. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” 

Aziraphale massaged his temples for a moment before speaking. “My dear boy,” he said in a strained voice. “My dearest, beloved Crowley. Typically, when one human proposes to another and then takes them out to try wedding cakes, it’s because they intend to marry them.” Aziraphale smiled. His eye twitched. “What exactly did _you_ intend?” 

"I dont know!" Crowley crossed his arms. It was annoying, being patronized by Aziraphale, but he was used to that. Really, he was upset with himself for managing to botch everything up so badly, but there was no reason for Aziraphale to know that. “It seemed romantic,” he said defensively. “You like romance! And cake! Never had much of a plan beyond that.” 

“_No plan beyond proving that he loved me. . ._” 

Crowley took an angry slurp of cocoa. It was delicious, of course. Aziraphale was frustratingly good at everything, aside from knowing the difference between a jokey fake proposal and a very emotional and serious real proposal, apparently. “I’m not good with plans. You're the smart one."

"I'm the_ nice_ one," said Aziraphale, exasperated. "You're supposed to be the smart one." 

"In what world am I the smart one?" Crowley was appalled by the suggestion. "You're the one with your head always stuck in some bloody book!"

"Yes, but, oh—!” Aziraphale waved a hand in frustration. "You're the clever serpent that beguiles innocent hearts into wickedness with your cunning wiles, or. . . something.”

"Maybe neither of us is the smart one," said Crowley.

They were both silent; it was a sobering realization. 

"Well, we simply _must_ get married, now that we've gone and got ourselves engaged," said Aziraphale with a huff. "I can't be your fiance forever. That isn't how these things work." 

"How do these things work, then?” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “We have ourselves a nice little church wedding, where a priest bonds you to a _demon_ in holy matrimony?” 

Aziraphale frowned. "Well, when you put it like that, I suppose I can understand your objection."

“Can you, now?" Crowley rolled his eyes. "You must be the smart one, then."

Aziraphale elected to ignore Crowley's sarcastic remarks. "Well, the ceremony needn't necessarily be religious," he said thoughtfully. "I'm sure we could arrange for something more secular, if you—”

Crowley bolted upright. "Arrange!" he exclaimed, smacking the couch. "We're both complete idiots," he said, turning to Aziraphale."We could have an Arrangement ceremony. We go over our Arrangement, and then just. . . tack something on at the end about everlasting love or whatever, and then get drunk, and eat cake, and dance, and all that." 

Aziraphale's eyes shone with admiration. "Oh, Crowley, dear, I always knew you were the smart one! Oh!” Aziraphale’s smile widened. “And we get to wear dresses, too, right?”

Crowley had to smile at that. “You can wear a dress anytime you like, you know.” 

“Well,_ yes_, but—” Aziraphale waved his hand. “Wedding dresses are special.” 

“And I’m sure you’ll look very special in it.” Crowley was trying to be sarcastic, but his mouth seemed to have some kind of vendetta against him, always turning his witty retorts into so much lovestruck mush whenever Aziraphale was involved. 

  
Aziraphale beamed. “Oh, thank you, dear.” He kissed Crowley’s cheek, and the demon decided that perhaps lovestruck mush wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally have One Day Off in the next two weeks so we'll fucking SEE when chapter 3 comes out, ill try to get it within 7 days but honestly even if the fic ends here I think yall get the point


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